The “wanted” poster: Sadiya Umar Farouq and the EFCC’s moving goalpost, By Abu-Sufuyan Isa

No one is above the law. Not former ministers. Not any public official.

But the law also cannot become theatre. When anti-corruption efforts start to look like public spectacle, the hunt risks becoming about humiliation, not justice.

The recent “wanted” notice issued by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission, EFCC, against former Minister of Humanitarian Affairs, Sadiya Umar Farouq, raises uncomfortable questions. It is not merely aggressive. It borders on the theatrical in ways that erode whatever remains of public confidence in the anti-corruption endeavour.

Let the record speak. And let it speak plainly.

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Since the investigation began in 2024, Sadiya Umar Farouq has, as learnt, presented herself voluntarily at EFCC headquarters on no fewer than 30 occasions. Thirty times she appeared. Not under protest. Not under the duress of arrest. Voluntarily.

She was granted administrative bail. Her passport was released. Credible pieces of information confirm she received explicit approval to travel abroad, including for her current medical trip to Egypt. Each journey, as learnt, was communicated in advance. Each received the commission’s clearance.

This is not the pattern of a fugitive evading justice.

It is the conduct of a citizen engaging with the process, however imperfect that process may be. A fugitive does not ask for permission to leave. A fugitive does not return. A fugitive does not clock about 30 voluntary appearances.

Then came the shift.

For months, the core allegations reportedly centred on approximately ₦2 billion. This was the universe within which bail was granted, the passport released, and travel approved. Two billion naira. Serious money, certainly. But at least a defined universe.

Then, while the former minister was lawfully out of the country on a pre-approved medical trip, the EFCC dramatically escalated the claim from ₦2 billion to ₦37 billion.

Let that arithmetic settle.

This larger figure had not featured in the 21 charges already before the court. It had not been tested under cross-examination. It had not been subjected to the scrutiny that accompanies formal charges. It emerged suddenly, explosively, and at precisely the moment the former minister was exercising permission granted by the same agency now declaring her wanted.

Coincidence?

Perhaps. But the optics are difficult to ignore.

If credible evidence of ₦37 billion existed, why was it not incorporated into the original charges? Why was the suspect granted bail, her passport released, and her travel approved if the commission was already sitting on evidence allegedly ₦35 billion larger than what it had charged?

Why did this new figure surface only after travel approval had been granted and acted upon?

The sequence suggests something less than a pure pursuit of justice. It suggests, instead, a carefully timed escalation calibrated for public effect. The law is not a trapdoor. An agency cannot grant permission with one hand and issue a “wanted” notice with the other without inviting serious questions about its own coherence and integrity.

Equally telling is the disparity in treatment.

The matter reportedly involves other individuals. Other names. Other hands in the same cookie jar, if the allegations are to be believed. Yet the EFCC’s spotlight and “wanted” machinery appear trained overwhelmingly in one direction. The same public vigour has not been extended to all parties connected to the matter.

Selective intensity. Selective outrage. Selective publicity.

When the fight against corruption begins to resemble political targeting, the fight is already in danger of losing its moral authority. Not because corruption has won, but because the institution risks surrendering its claim to impartiality.

Nigerians have seen enough cycles of dramatic announcements, media trials, and selective outrage to recognise the pattern.

A press conference here. A wanted poster there. A leaked investigation document. A carefully timed revelation just as political winds shift. The choreography is familiar. What is less familiar is consistency. What remains rare is the quiet, grinding work of building cases capable of surviving the scrutiny of a courtroom.

This is not how serious institutions build public trust.
Humiliating one suspect with full-colour posters and global circulation while others move more quietly does not strengthen anti-corruption efforts. It weakens the credibility of the institutions charged with that responsibility. It deepens the cynicism already flowing through the national bloodstream.

The principle at stake is straightforward.

If Sadiya Umar Farouq has a case to answer, let her answer it in court on the scheduled date, which, according to the records at FCT High Court 30, is May 18, 2026. Courts exist for a reason. They have procedures. They have rules of evidence. They have judges capable of distinguishing between a ₦2 billion allegation and a ₦37 billion allegation.

An agency cannot grant permission for travel, release a passport, and then issue a “wanted” declaration as though the citizen has vanished into hiding. That is not persuasive law enforcement. It is contradiction bordering on institutional self-sabotage.

Let us be clear about what is truly at stake.

It is not merely the fate of one former minister. It is the integrity of Nigeria’s anti-corruption architecture itself. Every time the EFCC appears to move the goalpost, every time allegations are escalated for maximum media impact, every time a cooperating suspect is publicly treated like a fugitive, the institution loses another piece of its credibility.

And credibility, once squandered, is painfully difficult to rebuild.

Nigeria has had enough of selective justice. Enough of agencies that pursue some while appearing hesitant with others. Enough of wanted posters that seem designed more for public consumption than courtroom conviction. Enough of theatrics dressed as enforcement.

The EFCC must present its full case. In court. Not through press statements that convict in the public imagination before a plea is even entered. Not through escalations timed in ways that appear calculated to embarrass a suspect who, by available accounts, complied repeatedly with investigative procedures. Not through the public humiliation of a citizen who reportedly appeared about 30 times, secured bail, and travelled only with explicit permission.

If the evidence exists, let it speak where it matters most.
If it does not, the commission owes the nation an explanation for this curious spectacle.

Until then, this “wanted” notice reads less like a measured step in the pursuit of justice and more like performative governance. In a country already burdened by perceptions of selective justice, such performances weaken institutions far more than they strengthen them.

The law is not theatre. The courtroom is not a press conference. The Nigerian people, weary as they are, can still tell the difference between justice and a show.

●Abu-Sufuyan Isa is an Abuja-based journalist.